


Who Needs Sobriety? Here's To Me!

by limin



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jschlatt-centric, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limin/pseuds/limin
Summary: Fifths of vodka make the world more bearable. Or at the very least they numb it just for a moment, and sometimes that’s all that Schlatt needs.The people around him worry.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt, Floris | Fundy & Jschlatt, GeorgeNotFound & Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 213





	Who Needs Sobriety? Here's To Me!

**Author's Note:**

> Sure hope you've read all the tags and know what you're about to read. Seriously, I don't bother sugar coating the matter because it would simply not be right to do so, and as a result we have this fic. 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy.

The tapping of his nails against the cold table is loud in the silence as Schlatt scans his cabinet, waiting for anyone to speak up, to break the silence that has gone on since the start of the meeting.

No one does, of course. 

Quackity is useless as VP (not really, but right now he’s certainly not doing shit), but because of their little deal he has to keep Quackity. After all it’s thanks to him that Schlatt even gets to be in the White House, but right now he’s really rethinking his decision about joining this whole shebang and winning and whatnot.

Schlatt sighs. Everyone’s looking at him, also waiting for him to make the first move, he supposes.

Fucking Tubbo could not be more depressed that he has to be here and he has to continue his job as Secretary of State. Not that he is really continuing his work, kid’s too young to be a soldier and too young to be a politician. But there’s no proper schooling system in L’Manberg yet, and after the whole Wilbur thing, Schlatt thinks Tubbo needs this even if Secretary of State is just an empty title.

He will take Tubbo being miserable around the White House as opposed to Tubbo being miserable alone. Plus, Schlatt has gotten George on the actual foregin affair business so it isn’t like he needs to worry much.

Making George the actual Secretary of State was an easy choice. He has the best relationship with Dream for starters, and from what Quackity has told him, George can pull his weight and make it worth his time.

Right now he’s not though. Fuck, he might as well not be here, it wouldn’t make a different.

The silence continues on.

Across George is Fundy, the Secretary of War. He’s easily the most useful one here, and it’s another easy choice to appoint him that position. He isn’t saying anything either, his ears pressed flat down and his tail curls as close to his body as possible.

He doesn’t need a Secretary of Treasury. Schlatt himself can easily get that done, and even better, that means he has full control over the financial side of things. He also doesn’t really know who should be Attorney General just yet, and fuck, that’s another thing to put on his to-do list.

No one has said anything yet.

Schlatt thinks about the bottle of scotch, more than 16 years old (older than Tubbo), standing in his office.

It’s one of his favourites and has cost him quite some time and money to track down and purchase. The flavor profile is unique: the butterscotch at the start, the spike of black pepper when it hits and vanishes when he swallows, the leftover mild herbal notes in the end. And that’s simplifying it a lot.

The scotch has been, specifically, a celebratory thing. A congratulation on his win, on his new position as the president of L’Manberg. It’s meant to be enjoyed slowly, leisurely as he gets comfortable in his office, suit jacket hanging on the chair, the fireplace slowly crackling away in the background.

Now he just wants to get drunk.

Schlatt stands up. Everyone, even Quackity, tenses. Their eyes follow him as he walks over to the large window. It’s early evening still, and when he touches the glass the biting cold travels through.

The sky is clear. The future, not so much.

“I see that you all are still...adjusting to the new changes. A transition in power is always unusual,” Schlatt says slowly. He can’t read their expressions well enough in the reflection, not that it matters. He checks the clock. “Unfortunately, no one really gives a fuck if you need adjustment. A country needs to be run. You have 14 hours.”

“W-what?” Tubbo stutters. The kid sinks deeper into the seat when Schlatt turns back to face the group again, trying to make himself as small as possible as if that’s necessary. “I mean- pardon?”

“Tomorrow morning, 8 AM sharp,” Schlatt shrugs, stuffing his hands deep into the suit jacket. No one needs to see the shaking.

He walks to the door, not runs. He doesn’t run.

No one says anything. Silence is as close of an affirmation as he can get at this point, Schlatt thinks.

The door opens easily with a simple push. “And wear a suit or something, for fuck’s sake.”

* * *

Schlatt doesn’t leave the white house, or at least he doesn’t plan to. He walks back to the office, taking off the jacket, loosening the tie until it isn’t so suffocating anymore and collapses on the chair. The room is messy, a trait of Wilbur from his previous term (can it really be called that when Wilbur was merely acting president?) lives on in the form of messy paperworks and the guitar in the corner of the room. Schlatt’s sure if he looks he will find more and more of the subconscious marks that Wilbur and Tommy left.

It’s good that he’s not here to be observant then. He’s here to get drunk, or at the very least he’s here to take the edge off for a few moments.

14 hours. 

Schlatt rolls his eyes, fetches a proper glass and pours himself a generous amount. Then he pauses for a moment, actually thinking the situation through.

This is fucking Longmorn 16, the original bottle no less. He’s not going to get smash shit drunk on Longmorn 16. He still has some fucking self respect left for goodness sake.

The drink he has already poured sits there, staring at him invitingly. Schlatt sighs, picking up the glass. 

The least he can do is to appreciate this before the damn thing evaporates.

* * *

The warmth glow covers him like a blanket, and Schlatt sighs, leaning back. It makes him light-headed in the best way, the way he needs.

He doesn’t notice Quackity until the man is standing right in front of him, his hand heavy on Schlatt’s shoulder. There’s a frown on his face.

“Schlatt,” Quackity says carefully. “Why are you still-”

“I’m celebrating.”

A sigh this time. “Babe, we’ve talked about this.”

“It’s just a drink,” Schlatt bites back. Who is Quackity to waltz in here and rain on his parade anyway? “Don’t be so stupid.”

“Not until you stop being so stupid yourself,” Quackity mutters. He walks around the table, offering his hand and Schlatt grumbles but takes it. He gets pulled up, the sudden movement so fast that it leaves him dizzy for a second before finally gathering his bearings. “Come on, let’s go home. Big day tomorrow, yeah babe?”

Schlatt thinks over everything for a moment. He eventually nods, and lets Quackity drag him back to their place.

* * *

Another meeting. At this point he has learned that his group isn’t so talkative period, or at the very least not so talkative around him. He damn well knows that he has seen Tubbo and Fundy joking around together, Tubbo happily chatting with Quackity, Fundy sitting with George, whatever. Whatever.

“Quackity, what’s today agendas?” Schlatt asks simply, and his VP stands up. He rattles off words from his list, the list that Tubbo and Fundy and George contributed to through Quackity and then it gets awkwardly passed along to him.

It doesn’t matter.

He throws out his own solutions and thoughts on the matter. Quackity hums and writes it down, and every now and then George would add something but that’s the extent of his interaction to his own cabinet. Kinda sad, now that Schlatt’s thinking about it.

Yesterday, he went out and bought some cheap brand vodka. Right now he wants to drink it, just some regular old shitty alcohol in his system to get him through the day.

“Anything else?”

“No sir.”

Schlatt scans the room again. No one meets his eyes. Tubbo fidgets with the hem of his suit, still not used to the proper attire. “Tubbo?”

He jumps in his seat. It would be funny if it isn’t so… whatever. “Y-Yes, Schlatt?”

“Anything else you want to share?”

“I, um-” Tubbo hesitates. Fidgets with his suit some more. Answers. “Depends, how is the treasury, Schlatt?”

It has been great since he has taken over, actually. He’s a businessman first, a politician second and he knows his way around money alright. Fuck, the place is actually moving up, a young country properly thriving.

“Depends,” Schlatt says slowly. “Why?”

“I was thinking, about, well, maybe we should throw an event or something for the people?”

“Go on.”

“Well, everyone has been a little,” Tubbo winces. “Winter’s coming. It wouldn’t hurt to boost everyone’s morale up a little. And it will be the first winter without Dream’s taxation hanging over everyone’s head, you know?”

He doesn’t. Most of the time he’s on the side of the people who raise tax.

“Fair enough,” Schlatt shrugs. “Quackity, note that down for the next meeting. In the meantime I’m sure all of you can come up with some good ideas for the event. Budget details will be given out as soon as possible. Anything else?”

Surprisingly, Fundy speaks up.

* * *

Schlatt hates vodka with a passion. The only reason it exists is to add to other drinks and make them alcoholic, and generally it tastes like shit. But it’s cheap, and the point is to drink alcohol and get drunk, not enjoying the alcohol, so...

Quackity is not here right now. He’s, as far as Schlatt is concerned, going through his own paperworks in his own office and he would not come here unless it’s something of utmost importance. The same general rule is applied to the others during work hours, and he can’t think of anything important coming up.

The point is, Schlatt’s alone right now, with fifths of vodka and zero chance of anyone bothering him.

He doesn’t get so drunk that he’s incapable of doing anything. There’s a line, sure, but he’s tiptoeing that line between “drinking for some peace of mind” and “starting a binge drinking craze” pretty damn well for someone who is pleasantly drunk and can probably not walk straight at the moment.

By the time afternoon rolls around, he’s vaguely tired, definitely dehydrated and all in all it’s not the worst thing ever. His stack of paperworks have greatly decreased, and Schlatt’s pretty sure that he has done at least half of them correctly, which is more than good in his book.

There’s an ache in his muscles when he bends down and tries to reach for a piece of paper. He frowns, pushing that feeling down and standing up from the chair, stretching in place for a moment. His eyes, actually not really, but behind his eyes or around it also exists a pulsing constant pain.

Yeah, he has had worse. This is fine.

Schlatt goes to fetch himself a cup of coffee.

* * *

“Are you drinking?”

Schlatt shrugs, his hand still outstretched, holding the documents with the assigned budget for the winter festival. Tubbo doesn’t seem to care that he’s holding that, despite the fact that this whole thing is his idea in the first place.

“Are you going to take this?” he asks back.

Tubbo also doesn’t seem to hear his question, continuing on. “Ale- Quackity says you should not be drinking…”

Oh, does he now?

He wonders if it’s the fact that Quackity is going around telling people about this that got him frowning, or the fact that a fucking 16 years old is telling him this.

“Don’t tell Quackity about this then,” Schlatt says, then adds, “And also, don’t drink.”

He wants to laugh at the words that have come out of his mouth, to just double over, letting his maniac cackle out, laughing at the stupid as fuck, ridiculous situation. Sure, he will look like he’s crazy in front of Tubbo, but he’s also drunk off his ass in front of Tubbo so what different does it make?

The thought doesn’t sit well with him though. Schlatt frowns, storing it away to think about on a rainy day or something when he can properly rationalise why being a piece of shit in front of Tubbo is not an amicable idea. Not now.

Tubbo finally takes the paper off his hand. Well, snatches it quickly like he’s afraid Schlatt’s going to bite is more of an accurate description. “I won’t.”

* * *

“Schlatt, what is this?” Quackity asks the moment he steps back into the office, gesturing at the bottle. 

A cigarette is hanging from Schlatt’s mouth. He moves it to his hand, loosely holding it between his fingers. “What?”

Quackity picks up the vodka. “This. What is this?”

“Alcohol, obviously,” Schlatt says, rolling his eyes and walking closer to the desk. “Is there a point to be made here, or?”

“What do you mean- Yes, there’s a point!” Quackity’s voice is higher than usual again. That only happens when he’s practically worried, upset or happy. “You’re day drinking and smoking and who knows what else?!”

The cigarette suddenly loses its appeal. He stubs it on the tray.

“Schlatt, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Do you have anything else you want to say? You know, actual official bureaucracy bullshit stuff?”

Quackity opens his mouth. Then he closes it with a click, then he’s looking away from Schlatt. “I don’t know why you’re still doing this.”

Ah yes, one of these talks again. How original.

“Don’t,” Schlatt groans. “Not now, at least.”

“Then when?”

“I don’t fucking know, just...not here.”

Being in public has never stopped them fighting before. Sometimes being in public just eggs him on, what’s with Schlatt relishing in an audience, in witnesses. Look at me, being so fucked up and whatever.

So why not here?

Quackity’s scowl softens into something else, almost like he knows the answer to the question that Schlatt doesn’t voice. “Yeah, alright. Alright.”

“Alright.”

* * *

He doesn’t go home. Quackity doesn’t look at him the next day. It repeats.

Schlatt drinks the vodka straight from the bottle and tells himself he doesn’t care. This time it isn’t so easy to tiptoe the line anymore, and drinking to stop giving a fuck about Quackity turns to drinking, period.

Fuck it all, honestly. And fuck George specifically for dropping by his office just to shake his head before dodging out.

* * *

Fundy’s the next person to show up in his office, clutching some papers close to his chest.

Schlatt remembers everyone talking about the winter festival at the meeting after Tubbo’s suggestion. He remembers everyone talking, not about the winter festival or anything work-related, just normal talks. He remembers the ease with which people have when they see him around, not so much avoidance or silent anymore.

It has been good.

Schlatt can’t remember a lot of other things. It’s hard to recall anything when you’re black out drunk. He can’t remember the exact moment when Fundy is acting like a prey around him again, all skittish with his emotions betrayed by his ears and tail and the simple way he holds himself.

His hand wanders to the bottle, but he stops himself from bringing it to his lips. “What can I help you with?”

“We need your approval for the winter market.”

We. Fundy, Tubbo, Quackity, even George. He wonders if Fundy has drawn the short straw or lost a game of rock paper scissors or whatever.

Schlatt vaguely gestures to the spot on the table. “Just leave it there, I will look over it in a bit.”

“Will you?” Fundy blurts out. It’s clear that he does that on accident, with how he’s suddenly crouching down just a little, making himself seem shorter. What is it with everyone making themselves smaller around here?

“Well yeah, what kind of question is that?”

Fundy shrugs. He rushes over, quickly drops the paper at where Schlatt has told him to. His eyes flicker to the bottle when he’s close enough.

Want some? Schlatt almost asks. Fundy’s of legal age to drink, and sometimes the prospect of getting shitfaced alone is horrible. And by sometimes he means most of the time.

But also, not with Fundy, no.

Fundy who is still staring at him. It’s the first time he has looked straight at him since this whole shit began.

He has never really known that Fundy’s gaze can be that piercing. Schlatt breaks the contact first, turning away. “I’ll give you the thing when I’m done with it. But also just go ahead and get started, you know it’s gonna be a yes anyway.”

Fundy sighs. A lot of people are doing that these days, sighing about him. “Schlatt, about the drinkin-”

“Get out.”

* * *

“We’re doing this,” Quackity says, his tone breaks no argument. “Schlatt, what the fuck is wrong?”

“Nothing is,” Schlatt sighs. “Quackity, this is a presidential office. Don’t cause a ruckus.”

“I don’t see you going, don't get drunk in the office.”

“...Fair point.”

Quackity’s hand moves up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You can tell me, it’s fine. Anything is better than continuing to see you be like this.”

Schlatt grits his teeth. His grip on the pen tightens, before he forces himself to relax. “Like what, Quackity?”

“Drinking yourself to death! Being miserable and short-tempered and just,” he groans, catching his breaths. His face is red, and then on an even closer inspection, there are dry tear tracks. “Watching you be like this is killing me, alright? Just, tell me how to fix this!”

“Fix?” Schlatt echoes. He must have let something break through, on his face or in his tone because Quackity stiffens. “Is that what this whole thing is? A project for you to fix?”

“Schlatt-”

He stands up, slams his hands on the table. The silence that’s left behind is deafening. “Oh yes, because I need fucking fixing, isn’t that right?” His voice raises as Schlatt rounds the table, until he’s right up in Quackity’s personal space.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Quackity pleads, taking a step back.

Schlatt takes a step forward. Something is trying to claw its way out. “And once I’m fine you can pat yourself on the back and doesn’t have to feel fucking guilty anymore, right?”

“No! I don’t-”

He tries to shove it, shove that whole fucking deal as far down as he can, but it doesn't go far, sticking in his throat, constricting and horrible and he shoves at Quakity instead, watching as he stumbles back.

It’s still there, the lump in his throat that vaguely tastes of smoke and liquor.

Fuck no, Schlatt’s not going to fucking cry in front of Quackity over this. Quackity who is looking at him with sympathy (pity) all over his face, and it shows in his shaking hands as he reaches out and something is cracking, breaking on the surface-

He won’t let anyone see this mess inside of him. Fuck this, fuck thisfuckthis-

“Schlatt!”

He ignores Quackity, turns and runs. His eyes sting, his vision is blurry and he can’t breath or think any straight thoughts, any other thoughts that are not about this but he can run.

* * *

Before they buy a house together, Schlatt has his own place. A cabin, his first proper house in L’Manberg, lays at the far end of the country, nearing the border. The tears eventually stop halfway back, and when he wrenches the door open there’s nothing left to cry out anymore.

He still has a lot of his personal shit here, including the liquor. His steps bring him into the kitchen, hand shaking as he opens the nearest cabinet, grabbing a random bottle and finishing what’s left of the content in there.

It burns his tongue and his throat, but it stops the shaking, stops his nerves from going haywire.

And Schlatt feels better.  He takes a shower, the fog from the hot water reminding him of cigarettes and cigars.

His suits are still here, some of them. Most of them are black, some of them are more colourful, and Schlatt takes out a red suit jacket with the black lapels, wearing it with his white button up.  It’s his favourite getup, but most of the time it doesn’t fit with the cold businessman brand he has going on so he rarely wears it.  


Branding doesn’t matter tonight, of course.

And just because why fucking not, he hunts down that one pair of cufflinks that look like ram skull, and he adorns his own horns with stupid jewelleries that he hasn’t touched since forever too. The gold and silver glisten in the dim lighting.  


His corpse won't be an ugly one.  


* * *

If there’s one thing he genuinely likes about L’Manberg, it’s the club scene. This kind of shit has already been going on since Dream’s reign because hey, you gotta let the stress out somewhere. The scene certainly hasn’t stopped or slowed down one bit, nor does Schlatt ever bothers organising a crack down on it.

Lights are flashing a dangerous neon blue and green and heavy bass boosted music is blasting through the club when he enters, the sound immediately shaking his body to its core, bone-rattling in the best possible way. And oh yeah, this is where it’s at. 

Oh, how Schlatt misses this.

He drinks, and he snorts some shit that a stranger hands him without a care. He buys everyone a shot of tequila, because hey, you don’t say no to a free shot of tequila ever. Someone rolls him a joint, and he smokes that too.

The high and ecstasy all mixes together at some point.

He cuts his hand at some point, on accident, but doesn’t bother dealing with it, on purpose. 

Someone is dragging him to the bathroom though, helping him bandage the thing up or at least to not drip his blood everywhere, and Schlatt tries to say thank you but his tongue is not in any working order.

He thinks the message gets across anyway when the stranger smiles and hands him another joint. Schlatt draws the smoke in, leaning closer to them and letting the smoke gently go out. They grin at him, chuckling.

They drag each other out of the bathroom at some point, and he orders both of them neat shots of whiskey as a thank you, and orders everyone around that too because why not? 

And in the end, Schlatt downs it one by one, thinking about that bottle of Longmorn and about people he has no right to be thinking about.

To and for his stupid fucking cabinet members.  


**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I was really wanting Longmorn whilst writing this?


End file.
